Chapter 3: Catherine’s Letters

The third week brought the first real cold snap of autumn. Rebecca woke to frost on the windows and the smell of snow in the air, though the sky remained clear. She dressed warmly and hurried downstairs to start the fire.

The routine had become second nature now. Coffee first, then bacon and eggs, fresh biscuits if there was time. Silas would come in from the barn with his hands red from cold, and Tessa would appear sleepy-eyed and tangled-haired, demanding to be braided before breakfast.

They’d become a unit, the three of them. A strange little family that didn’t quite know what it was yet.

“Getting colder,” Silas observed over his coffee that morning. “Winter comes early this far north. You’ll want to make sure you’ve got warm enough clothing.”

“I’ll manage,” Rebecca said.

“There’s wool in the storage room. Catherine used to spin. Never got around to clearing it out, but you’re welcome to whatever you can use.” He paused, his cup halfway to his mouth. “Actually, that whole room needs organizing. If you’re willing to tackle it.”

Rebecca had been curious about the closed door at the end of the upstairs hallway for weeks. “I’d be happy to.”

“Fair warning—it’s a mess. Two years of accumulation. Take whatever time you need.”

After Silas left for the day’s work and Tessa settled into her morning chores, Rebecca climbed the stairs and opened the storage room door.

It was indeed a mess.

Boxes and crates were stacked haphazardly. A broken spinning wheel leaned against one wall. Bags of wool, some moth-eaten, filled the corners. There were old clothes, worn-out tools, stacks of newspapers yellowed with age. The detritus of a life interrupted.

Rebecca rolled up her sleeves and began.

She worked methodically, sorting items into piles: things to keep, things to mend, things to discard. She found baby clothes—tiny gowns and bonnets that made her throat tight. She found women’s dresses, simple calicos and one good Sunday dress in deep green. Catherine’s clothes, unworn for two years.

She was reaching behind the broken spinning wheel when her hand touched wood. She pulled out a small box, plain pine with a simple latch.

At first, she tried to respect privacy and put it back. But curiosity won, and she opened the latch.

Inside were letters. Dozens of them, each in a sealed envelope, each addressed in a feminine hand.

Rebecca’s breath caught as she read the inscriptions:

An entire life mapped out in sealed envelopes. Messages from a dying mother to the daughter who would grow up without her.

Rebecca’s hands trembled as she touched the letters, feeling the weight of love and loss they represented. Her eyes blurred with tears. This was the most intimate grief—a mother’s desperate attempt to bridge the gap between life and death, to be present for all the moments she would miss.

“You found Catherine’s letters.”

Silas’s voice from the doorway made Rebecca gasp. She spun around, guilt flooding her face, the box nearly slipping from her hands.

“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t prying. I was just cleaning, and I found them. I didn’t open any—”